Falling Snow
by Baku97
Summary: Bastards are fated to lead hard lives. Often shunned, disregarded and disresepcted, Westeros is not a kind place for Snows, Sands, Waters, Rivers, Storms and the like. Jon, however, does not wish to lead a life of hardship, and he will prove that Snow can fall anywhere. Slight AU/minor character changes including Jon with a bit more wolf-blood. Cover art by Fresco-child.
1. Prologue

Yo yo yo! Been wanting to write a GoT fic for a while and i've had a few ideas floating about but this is the first one thats translated to writing.

This is gonna be slight AU including some character changes mostly revolving around subtle appearance and age altrerations.

Pairings will exist but i won't reveal them till they come up. Won't be a harem nor will it be a 'find a gal at the start = instant and forever love' type ordeal. You can review what pairings you may want!

Anyway, enjoy :)

* * *

Dark lilac eyes opened and gazed upon a black sky. Snow fell lazily from above and the stench of death hung thick in the air. The baron, snowy landscape, once white and sacred was now stained red with blood.

His body felt weak and he staggered slightly to the side, using his sword to prop himself warily.

A figure emerged through the storm, one of ice. Its glacial blue eyes ever watching. He felt a chill take hold of him unlike any he'd ever felt before. It was colder, darker.

 _"Wake, sweet prince."_

The figure was approaching him. Slowly with an unnatural grace did it weave through the corpses of his fallen brothers and sisters, their bodies freezing over at its mere proximity.

He steadied himself. Despite the aching body that called for him to close his eyes and embrace unconsciousness he could not. His battle was not over.

He took a hesitant half step forward, testing his strength. The figure was close now, and he could make it out clearly.

It truly was a being of ice, a personification of cold, an embodiment of death.

Fear crept through him but he quickly quelled it. Fear would do him no good now. There was no running, no hiding. He could not pray for he was unsure of the gods and he could not wish for a miracle because he believed none would come.

He was alone facing this being of ice and cold and death and he could not run nor hide.

 _"You are not alone, sweet prince."_

The figure was now meters away and he felt the cold harsher than he could possible imagine. It ran through his veins, its icy grasp clenching his heart. His extremities felt numb and his body stiff.

He raised his sword into two hands and exhaled shakily, eyeing the being cautiously. It was armed with what looked like a long sword fashioned of ice. Its ethereal gleam matched that of its owner. The creature itself was clad in black ancient armour. A dark metal he could not quite place.

The figure's mouth moved and a harsh, unearthly voice fell into the wind that sounded to him like the shattering of ice over a winter lake.

He could not understand what it had intended to say but it did not matter. Words were useless at this point. He stared into the creature's eyes and for a moment saw a flicker of something that was not cold. Something that was almost mortal. However it vanished as quick as it came, and the creature continued forward, its great sword of ice poised and ready.

 _"Do not be scared, sweet prince."_

There was that voice again, soft and caring. He almost laughed to himself. These were his last moments and he was going mad. Delusion elicited by the cold and fear.

The figure was almost upon him and he poised his sword to meet it. He was unsure whether he was ready to die. They say that before you leave this world, your life flashes before your eyes. One last glance at the life you had led. However he could not remember much. He could not picture the face of his father or his brothers and sisters. His friends who he had fought side-by-side with and the enemies he had slain. There was only the voice, the delicate whisper in his ear, and despite his believed delusion he sought after it, for without it he would be truly alone.

In the nothingness that seemed to stretch within him, the voice spoke again and for once he heard it true and with clarity.

 _"When the night is dark and the cold creeps at your window, remember who you are and fight that cold with fire and blood."_

The message resonated within him and he felt a familiarity with the words he could not place. As if it was something he had grown up with. Suddenly the cold did not seem so grave and his body did not seem so weary.

The figure's sword of ice swung down upon him and he met it with his own and the world shook as the cold met fire and blood.

* * *

The Winterfell Godswood was a strange place. Old beyond comprehension, the place managed to combine a mystical, ethereal quality while being equally haunting. A gentle mist lingered despite the weather and seemed to lift off from the small pool of water that mirrored the aged weirwood trees. The snow white bark of the heart tree that that stood in the centre of the woods contrasted its blood red autumnal leaves. Winter was nearly here, after all, and the tree showed it.

"Get up, we need to go." Robb called out, his voice laced with exasperation.

Jon dragged his dark half-lidded lilac eyes from the leafs of the heart tree to his half-brother, "What's the rush?" He murmured hands still behind his head as he rested against the base of the tree.

"What's the rush?" Robb's exasperation was now blatant and his well-versed composure slipped somewhat, "The King will be here soon, and you are asking what the rush is?"

Jon merely raised an eyebrow. Inside however he was smirking. Jesting with Robb was one of his favourite pass times, and it was mostly one-way.

"Look, I won't ask again. Get up and dress yourself in something more presentable." The young wolf's composure returned and he had entered his 'Lord in training' mode. Jon knew the time more banter was over.

"Fine." He replied, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head with a brief yawn, "However there's no point in me dressing in my nicest garments, you know as well as I do that I'll just be shunted off into the fringes with the stable boys and squires." He paused as he rose unsteadily to his feet, stretching to his full height which was slightly taller than Robb.

"That doesn't matter." Robb interrupted with a certain finality that made the corner of Jon's lip twitch into what was reminiscent of a smile, "Now let's make haste, I dread to think what would happen if we are late to meet the King, and while you probably don't, you should." The boy quipped, with a mirthful glance in the bastard's direction.

Jon said nothing and the two brothers made their way back into the castle.

They passed through the servants' quarters and parted ways shortly after. Jon's own solar was located in one of the lower buildings, an old part of the keep that was in need of repairs but still functional. It was reserved for the likes of smiths, stable keepers and non-noble guests such as members of the Nights watch. Slightly above the servants, maids, and cooks but under the maesters and septas and the like. Right where a bastard belonged. Not that Jon was still sour on his position in the world. He'd long grown to accept it. Now four and ten, he allowed himself to enjoy the little benefits that accompanied his status, such as his freedom, for instance.

After dressing himself in his nicest clothing, , he made his way to the courtyard where already his family had begun to assemble.

His father, Ned Stark, stood still in the centre of the yard. His brow stern and his stare indifferent, hard but not quite cold, an image of the North. To his right stood Catalyn Stark, his Lady wife, with soft auburn brown hair, she stood with a pride that reflected her house words. Jon could not say he disliked the woman. She did not beat him, openly scorn him, nor did she ask anyone serving under the Starks to mistreat him and graciously allowed Jon to interact with her children, his half-siblings. She did however, openly avoid the boy and went about her daily routine as if he did not existence. Which Jon thought fair. After all, he was a threat, albeit not a large one, to her children's inheritance which was most likely the core of her well hidden dislike for him.

Next to Lady Catalyn, Robb stood as still and proud as his Lord father. The young wolf, they called him. The heir to Winterfell and the North. Once Jon envied Robb for his noble status however that was soon replaced by sympathy. The responsibilities the boy held were great and Jon was glad he did not bear them. Bran Stark stood next to his older brother; the seven year old was stood with all the pride and composure one of his age could muster. This however, paled next to baby Rickon. The four-year old stood uncertainly to the right of Bran. His thumb held to his mouth and his big, brown eyes constantly shifting between different people and objects in the courtyard.

Watching from the breeches, Jon watched as Sansa, the eldest Stark daughter, gracefully walked to her place on the left their father with Septa Mordane following shortly behind. With auburn hair true to any Tully, Sansa was definitely beautiful. Her pale skin constantly blushed at the slightest praise and she practiced etiquette of the North and South with a feverish passion. Septa Mordane stopped short of Sansa and turned sharply to look behind her.

"Arya Stark, I will not ask you again." She threatened in a hushed voice as beads of spittle escaped her thin lips.

The girl in question trudged forward from inside the castle to where the rest of her family were standing. It appeared as though despite the Septa Mordane's best efforts, she had been unable to force Arya wear a dress. Instead, she wore her finest breeches with an embroiled leather tunic. Her short brown hair while combed was still tussled and messy. If Jon had a favourite sibling, which he probably should not, it would be Arya. The girl was a Stark through and through and had what his father liked to call the 'wolfs blood'.

Sansa glanced at Arya out of the corner of her eye and nodded her head tightly as if to hurry the girl along. Her eyes then drifted up to Jon where they lingered for a fleeting moment before facing forwards once more.

Jon sighed inwardly and climbed down the stairs to the courtyard. He shared a nod with Maester Luwin and found his place next to the wall slightly behind the Stark family on the right.

In the distance, trumpets blared and the sound of hooves trampling through thin mud reached the awaiting party's ears.

The gates were already open and the first of the King's men rode through, dressed in fine armour polished to an extent where they could pass as looking glass. They carried banners bearing a crowned stag rampant on a field of gold, the sigil of house Baratheon. Shortly after, an elegant wheel house rolled into the keep. Lined with gold with great big wheels it was led by two impressive destriers which Jon thought unusual, since they were usually used for war or in some cases jousting. Knights in gold rode gallantly in front of the carriage.

The Kingsguard, Jon thought, was once a proud order, that now seemed somewhat tainted. It was mostly due to the man who rode with no helm. The golden locks that fell down either side of his face and the twinkling emerald eyes gave it all away. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Jon was unsure of the circumstances as to why the man had murdered his King, whether it was a decision born out of genuine turmoil or simply disloyal greed. The Kingsgaurd however, were not only sworn to protect their King, but also their King's family, which included their future King. According to his father, Jaime Lannister had sat smug on the throne, his sword still stained with his King's blood, while the innocent queen, daughter and crown prince were brutally murdered by Gregor Clegane, the Lannister's pet monster. So while Jon did not necessarily hate the man, his presence made him feel unsettled, a feeling he quickly shook.

Behind the carriage rode men in armour of red, gold and black. These were definitely Lannister men. Displaying banners with a golden lion on a crimson field, Jon was curious as to why the King had allowed his Queen's house to be equally as represented as his own.

The wheel house came to halt and the King's men and guard dispersed throughout the courtyard finding their appropriate positions.

Suddenly, the door to the carriage swung open, slamming against the side of the cabin and a man climbed down, a very fat man.

Jon's brow furrowed slightly as he laid his eyes on Robert Baratheon for the first time. The man was tall as his father said but he did not look like the stories at all. His round belly sagged at his belt and his large misshapen beard covered most of his blotted red cheeks. If it weren't for the jewelled crown atop his head Jon would have a hard time believing that this man was in fact the King and not some overweight drunkard.

Behind the King came a women Jon could only assume was the Queen. Cersei Lannister, or Baratheon, should he say. Taking her twin brother's hand as she stepped down from the carriage, the Queen was indeed a sight to see. Like Jaime, golden locks cascaded down either side of her head with loose strands from each side braided and wrapped round to join at the back of her head, forming one long braid. Her eyes also shone like emeralds and she held a stiff gracefulness befitting of a Queen. However, her age was evident. Some crow's feet were beginning to show either side of her eyes and laugh lines looked about ready to take place also, not that she looked like she ever laughed.

Following the Queen, the crown prince stepped down, looking more a Lannister than Baratheon. His arrogant smirk instantly irked Jon. Next came the princess Marcella, a tame looking thing, and finally Tommen, a plump little boy who, like Marcella, looked the only normal members of the royal family.

Jon watched as his father stiffened somewhat as the King caught his eye and approached him. The Baratheon, stopped short of the warden of the North and gave him a succinct look up and down.

Ned bowed shortly before returning to his stiff, upright position, "Winterfell is yours, your grace."

"You've gotten fat." The king grunted and Jon found it hard not to laugh at his audacity. Ned was not fat, and the King was certainly not fit.

Lord Stark did not rise to the jibe and merely raised an eyebrow, an amused quirk to his lips.

"By the Gods Ned!" The king suddenly shouted, "You being sat up here in this damnable country has made you near thrice as cold as the weather itself!" He then wrapped the man up in a large bear hug, "Still, it is good to see you old friend! It will be nice to have some real company and not a bunch of snivelling tarts all looking to gain my favour!" he all but shouted, releasing the man from his hold.

Ned did not reply but nodded his head slowly, the quirk of his lips still displaying his amusement.

"And Lady Catalyn, it is a pleasure to meet you again." Robert declared and Lady Stark curtsied delicately.

"The pleasure is mine your grace."

"Now, who do we have here?" the man asked as he moved his eyes to the eldest of the Stark boys, "Ah this must be Robb! You'll be a fine warrior one day my boy, just like your namesake!" He exclaimed and Robb bowed diligently.

"I will try to meet your expectations, your grace." He replied with a slight grin.

Robert then took a step to the side and looked down at Bran, "And this fine young man, you must be Bran! I'm sure you'll make an excellent lord one day." He complemented, a hearty smile on his face.

"I'm going to be a knight!" Bran corrected after a short bow, "Like Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard."

The king laughed loudly and rustled the boys hair, "I'm sure you will my boy, I look forward to you guarding my back." With that he turned to the last of the Stark boys, "Ah, this must be Rickon. Still a little thing but I'm sure you'll grow strong."

Baby Rickon bowed clumsily and nodded his head, confirming the King's statement to be correct. He then casts a tentative look towards his Mother, as if asking whether he had done well. She smiled fondly in response.

"Now, that's have a look at your girls Ned!" The King proclaimed, as he strode towards the other side of the party, his fat belly wobbling slightly. He stopped in front of Sansa and smiled, "This must be Sansa! What a beauty you are. I'm sure you'll be granted the queen of Love and Beauty if you were to attend any of our Southron tourneys." He complimented, his grin never faltering.

Sansa blushed prettily and curtsied gracefully, "You are too kind, your grace." She replied, her words soft yet clear as though she had practiced them a thousand times.

Robert then averted his attention to the second Stark daughter and his smile faltered momentarily. Arya locked eyes with the King and did not break contact as the man took in her whole form.

"And you, you must be Arya." He started slowly, before he shook himself out of whatever state he was in and laughed, not quite as loud as before, "You definitely have the wolf blood in you!" He said and rustled her hair also.

Arya grimaced under the King's hand and curtsied boyishly after he had removed it, "Thanks, your grace."

Next, the rest of the royal party greeted the Starks. Ned took the Queens had and kissed it politely, declaring that Winterfell was also hers. Prince Joffery greeted each member politely enough however looked as though he was struggling to hide a smirk of contempt. He saved a particularly flashy grin for Sansa whose cheeks reddened in response. Marcella greeted each Stark shyly and blushed when she was introduced to Robb. Little Tommen did much the same except him and Rickon seemed to exchange curious childlike stares before grinning happily at one another.

Meanwhile, the King stood back and took in the rest of the castle goers. His cerulean eyes wandering the rookeys and terraces of the old keep. Jon watched disinterestedly and failed to notice as Roberts eyes landed on his own.

The big man paused momentarily and his eyes narrowed somewhat. Then, he began making his way towards Jon, and the boy couldn't help but feel like he had somehow made an error.

"Your Grace?" Ned offered, as he watched his King walk away from the greeting.

The King stopped a meter before Jon and sized him up. He was not as tall as the Baratheon however he was of the same height as his father, and would likely grow still.

"Ah, this is my other son." Ned informed, as he positioned himself slightly behind Robert, "His name is Jon."

"The bastard?" Robert continued.

"Yes." Lord Stark replied a slight waver in his voice as his eyes moved to Jon's almost apologetically.

"He has the North in him, this is certain." The King commented, his eyes still leaving the boy's who returned the kings stare. Robert then laughed boisterously, "Looks like he's got some balls too! Speak boy, what does a bastard like you wish from life?"

Jon was momentarily startled by the question for he had not been expecting the King to address him directly. His brow furrowed and his lips thinned in thought.

"I'm not sure, Your Grace" He began after a pause, his eyes quickly shifting to his father's before returning to Robert's, "Due to my… humble status, I lack the responsibilities of a noble. I do not wish for wealth or fame or power. A keep where I will wed and form a brood of Snows. I suppose my only wish is that I am able to live freely and without restraint." Jon's eyes gained conviction and the King seemed to swell slightly, "I am a Snow of the North, and I will always be a Snow of the North, that is fine, however this Snow does not wish to linger in the North, but instead fall on other lands, perhaps where Snow has never fallen before."

His father gained a look of guised pride and the King looked thoughtful for a moment. In a sudden movement, he reached forwards and wrapped his great meaty arm around the boy's head bringing him into a headlock, laughing mostly to himself, "You upstart!" He roared, "If I could switch places and travel the world with only my warhammer and a wineskin I'd hand you this crown in an instant!"

Jon struggled weakly however thought it best not to resist too much. Before long the King released him of his hold and stepped back, grinning still.

"You've got a good lad here Ned," Robert exclaimed clapping the Lord of Winterfell on his back, "Say, how are your boys with the sword?" He asked curiously.

"They are exceptional, your Grace." Ned relied, a small grin on his lips.

"Excellent! I shall look forward to seeing them spar with my Joff." He announced loudly before lowering his voice slightly, "Although the boy needs a good beating if you ask me." He added, prompting Jon to laugh despite his best efforts.

The prince however heard the jape and scowled, looking towards his mother who was also scowling fiercely.

"Robert, my love, I'd appreciate it if you did not mock our son," She then turned her gaze to Jon, her emerald eyes narrowed, "Especially in front of a lowly bastard."

"Bah be quiet woman," The King quipped dismissively, "Now Ned, take me to your crypts." He demanded, having seemingly forgotten the conversation just past.

"My love-" Cersai began however a sharp look from Robert cut her off.

"Ned." He said, his tone filled with the finality of a King.

The quiet wolf offered the queen an apologetic nod before leading the King into the crypts while Lady Stark went about accompanying the rest of the royal family, who slowly filtered into the warm of the castle.

* * *

"So, you plan to leave Winterfell?" Jon sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose within two fingers.

"I was always to leave." He rolled over onto his side and took in the pair of muddy brown eyes, "Ned Stark may be my father and Winterfell may have been my home but I have no future here, you know this."

Jeyne Pool frowned, her soft brow scrunched, "Surely you could speak to your Lord Father? Convince him to let you stay?"

A soft smile graced Jon's lips and he reached forwards and gently moved a strand of the girl's hair behind her ear, "My Lord Father has done enough for me. He has provided me with a lordly home, where some would cast me aside. He has thus far treated me as much a son as Robb or Bran or Rickon than any bastard could ask for. Even his relationship with Lady Catalyn has suffered due to my presence." He retracted his hand placed it under his head, "I do not wish to burden him anymore than I already have, or Lady Catalyn for that matter."

Jeyne contemplated his words, her mouth opening and closing slightly as if retracing what he had said, "You could stay in Winter town, or come to court with-" She began.

"Jeyne." Jon interrupted, his voice a mix between sympathy and exasperation, "I'm a bastard. I will never be accepted at court. I do not wish to live in dreary old Winter town for the rest of my years" He watched as the steward of Winterfell's expression fell in disappointment and he could not help but feel sorry for the girl. He was soon a man grown and soon to be men grown oft experience certain urges towards the opposite sex, as Maester Luwin had said once. Jeyne Pool on the other hand was a woman flowered who happened to be attracted to the young bastard. When Jon was younger, his position as a bastard haunted him. Everywhere he went, he'd be reminded that he was a bastard and because of that he could nothing with his life. He was a bitter child, and it took a while before he could admit that. Jeyne Pool, good friends of Sansa Stark was, or used to be a bitch for a blunt way of putting it. She never openly taunted Jon, however her attitude towards him seemed more of a noble woman looking down on a street urchin than a steward's daughter to a Lord's bastard.

When Jon ws two and ten however, he began to realise his life as a bastard gave him freedom. He began to embrace his name and the negatives and positives that came with. As a result, Jeyne's Pools subtle taunts grew ineffective, and Jon took the opportunity to taunt her back, which somehow led to her becoming infatuated with him.

"I understand," The girl said after a small pause as she pulled the cover over her breast, "will you think of me?" She then asked.

Would he think of her? Jon pondered the question for a moment. The girl was sweet, and he was fond of her, but he did not care for her as a lover would. Nonetheless, he was just a maid as she before they lay together, and that meant something to him. Once upon a time, the thought of laying with a girl before marriage was not one considered by Jon Snow. He hated his life as a bastard, and did not want to sire a child with the same fate. Now however, he did not mind it as much. He liked to think he'd adopted a 'Dornish' mentality on the matter: a bastard may be a bastard, but any bastard of his would be treated as a trueborn.

"Yes, I think I will." He concluded aloud eventually after shaking himself out of a mull, and the girl smiled sadly.

"That's good." She replied as she sunk into the old featherbed that occupied Jon's solar, "what will you do?" her gaze once again inquisitive, still that hint of sadness lingering in her brown orbs.

"I'm not sure." He sighed and stared blankly at the ceiling, his deep lilac eyes shimmering gently, "In the north, snow is everywhere, and bastard Snows are everywhere too," A sly grin tugged at his lips and he returned his gaze to Jeyne, "I suppose I intend to let this Northern Snow fall all over the world."

"That's big talk for a bastard." The girl quipped, smirking mirthfully.

"Yes well this bastard isn't just talk." Jon rolled over so that he was on top of Jeyne and stared down at her predatorily, "And I will show the west," He kissed her left collarbone slowly, "the east." He turned his attention to her right collarbone, nipping at her skin, "And the south…" He slurred, as he kissed his way down through the valley of Jeynes growing breasts, over her belly and to her flower, "Just what the Snows of the North are truly capable of."

* * *

Done! This is a prologue so the next chapters will (hopefully) be longer. Updates should come relatively quickly since i've finished uni and am currently trapped at home for three weeks.

Note: I think in canon, jon is slightly more Rhaegar than Lyanna (more reserved than outgoing), in this he's got a bit more lyanna in him, while still retaining that Targaryen twang.

Review, fav or follow if it pleases ya.

Thanks for readin!


	2. A Broken Prince

Yo! This is a slightly shorter chapter but i just kinda wanted to get it out there so here it is.

Thanks to all of you who reviewd (even those couple of weird ones that made me feel like i'd dived into a very hardcore ASOIAF fan page), favourited and followed! I appreciate it.

Enjoy.

* * *

Robb watched as Jon sparred with Theon Greyjoy, his father's ward. The Iron Islander was being put on his back foot as the lilac eyed boy pressed him with swift, consecutive strikes. The young heir to the North was of around the same age as his brother and despite his pride, he had to admit Jon was an excellent swordsman. Even Ser Rodrick Cassel had admitted that the boy had an almost unnatural grace when he had a sword in hand, utilising movements that weren't always those drilled by the Winterfell master at arms.

"C'mon bastard, I thought you were better than this!" Theon jibed as he pivoted around a sweeping stroke from Jon's wooden sword. Robb smirked at the interaction, more than aware of what his brother was doing. He was going easy on the older boy, lazily dancing around his attacks and countering with lackadaisical ones of his own.

"You're right." Jon drawled, a slow grin taking place on his lips, "I am."

In a sudden bout of speed, the boy surged forwards towards Theon, who hastily struck with a downwards slash to his torso. Jon easily parried the strike to the side and swung his sword faster than Robb could follow. In the next moment, Theon let out a cry of pain, his practice sword on the floor and his good hand cradled in his other.

"You cunt!" He shouted between moans of pain, "You broke my fucking hand!"

Jon watched with obvious distaste and rested his weapon on his shoulder, "Serves you for calling me a bastard." He grinned.

"You are a bastard." Theon ground out, his teeth clenched in pain.

"And you're a pussy." His brother quipped back and Robb had to hold back a snort of laughter. He liked Theon, but sometimes the boy pushed people too far.

Ever since the failed Iron Island rebellion, Theon had been held as a glorified hostage in Winterfell. As arrogant and lustful as a man of eight and ten could be, it was well known that Theon particularly disliked Jon. The boy had a tendency to vibrantly recall his exploits whether it be in the training yard or in the bedroom, the latter mostly being in brothels. Jon however, was always quick to discredit Theon's tales in one way or another. It did not help that Jon also soundly beat Theon when it came to sparring, despite him being 4 years his junior.

"Well fought Jon, excellent as usual." Ser Rodrick stepped in, his stern eyes ever watching, "Theon, go get your hand seen by Maester Luwin, and stop moaning, it's unbefitting of a man grown." He ordered and Theon cursed under his breath before striding off with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Enjoy the show?" Jon asked playfully and Robb laughed heartily.

"It was quite boring actually," He grinned, "You should try losing sometime."

His brother chuckled and ran a hand through his black hair, "I haven't lost yet 'cause you two do don't give me enough of a challenge!"

Robb smiled mirthfully, shaking his head and handed Jon a canteen of water from which he drank thirstily from.

A dismissive snort sounded from behind the two brothers and they turned to see a smirking Joffrey Baratheon and Sandor Clegane, the Hound. Before Robb or Jon could retort, Ser Rodrick turned his gaze to the young heir to the crown.

"Something you wish to add, Prince Joffrey?" he asked, the respect in his voice limited to that of the boy's status rather than his character.

Joffrey shook his head dismissively and rested his hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip, "You talk as if beating some Ironborn scum is anything to be proud of, all while playing with toy swords, like little children." He swept his cruel eyes over the men in the yard, "I thought you Northerners to be savage barbarians, but you're nought but children playing at being knights." He laughed to himself and looked up at the Hound who remained stoic. Robb had to bite down a retort, internally fuming at the prince's audacity. He also noted that Jon looked surprisingly calm, not showing any outward reaction to the brat's words.

"Perhaps then, my prince, you would like to partake in a bout, against our Lord Robb perhaps?" Ser Rodrick replied, not rising to the insult.

"I think not, I do not play at games." The prince bit back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What do you suggest then?" the master at arms questioned, a single bushy grey eyebrow raised.

"Live steel." Joffrey stated, a dangerous grin returning to his lips.

"Absolutely not." Ser Rodrick's voice was stern and unwavering.

"Just as I thought, you Northern folk are all cravens." The blond haired boy laughed again to himself.

Robb was furious. This upstart prince thought he could strut into his household and insult not only him but his people! To his right, the young wolf noted that even Ser Rodrick had gone red with a silent rage. The old swords master was a proud man. Respectful of authority and knowing of his place, he was a knight through and through. However even the most disciplined of men have their limits.

"Might I suggest an alternative?" Jon's voice seemed to break Robb and Ser Rodrick out of their stupors as they, including the prince, turned their attention to him.

"Very well, speak bastard." Joffrey said with a slight nod of his head, the contempt in his eyes blatant.

"I believe Ser Rodrick's concern here with using live steel is that an injury could be inflicted on either Robb here, being the heir to the North, or you, being the heir to the crown, which would lead to unneeded animosity between the crown and the North." Jon paused and eyed Ser Rodrick who nodded slightly and then looked back at the prince, "In that case, how about I fight you." Ser Rodrick's mouth dropped slightly and budding seed of worry grew in the pit of Robb's stomach.

"Why would I, heir to the seven kingdoms, fight you, who are so beneath me?" Joffrey countered hotly.

"I must agree Jon, this proposition is ridiculous, if the prince where to get hurt-" Ser Rodrick began as he regained his composure.

"I haven't finished." Jon interrupted slyly, turning his attention back to Joff, "I agree, a humble bastard raising live steel against the crown prince would be foolish. So, how about you use your steel you seem so fond of, and I'll use one of our wooden practice swords? That way, if you injure, maim or kill me, it is not of an importance since I am but a bastard, and any potential injury inflicted on you would be minimalized to a bruise or two."

The prince paused at this, shutting his thin lips together tightly and furrowing his brow in thought. Robb meanwhile smirked at his half-brother. He was unsure of Joffrey's skill with a sword however he was fairly confident that Jon was better. Ser Rodrick also looked thoughtful however Robb thought the old knight was like to agree to the bout. Mostly because it meant that the prince would not be harmed too much, while he would also be put in his place.

"I give my consent to this bout." Ser Rodrick spoke up and Jon nodded to him thankfully. Joffrey on the other hand ignored the man and instead turned to converse quietly with the Hound.

After a few moments of hushed whispers, the crown prince faced the yard once more, his smirking façade having returned, "Very well. I will agree to your play fight." He announced, striding forward while unsheathing his live steel.

Robb was inwardly delighted, this maid of a prince was about to get a big shock.

* * *

Jon had quickly grown tired of the crown Prince. With his dirty blond hair and merciless emerald eyes, the prince who had somehow already won Sansa's heart, had labelled the Northern folk cravens. Jon could not wait to prove him wrong.

Looking up into the raised terrace Jon noticed that the King, Queen, his Lord father and Lady Catalyn had taken up residence to watch the bout. Robert Baratheon seemed to be conversing enthusiastically with Ned, who in turn was nodding reservedly at pointed intervals. Meanwhile, Cersei was making small talk with Lady Catalyn with a look on her face like she had smelt something foul. Occasionally, the Queen's eyes would flick to her son, linger for a moment then briefly glance over to Jon then back to the Lady of the North.

"I am not sure this is a good idea, Jon." Robb interrupted the boy's train of thought, taking the skin of water off him and taking a swig himself, "But, I won't stop you." He finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes twinkling playfully.

"Aye, this probably isn't a good idea." Jon agreed and leant in close to his brother, "But I long to see his royal arse splayed in the dirt." He quipped and Robb laughed heartily.

In the corner of the eye, the bastard of Winterfell noted Joffrey's scowl deepening. He was unsure whether the boy had heard their banter or whether he simply disliked seeing the young North men enjoy themselves but he did care either way.

"Well bastard, are you ready?" Joffrey near shouted, shifting their attention back to him.

"I believe I am." Jon replied, spinning his practice sword in hand with a rotation of his wrist, "That's a nice sword you have there." He commented, surprising himself at the genuine praise he'd given.

The Prince took a moment to admire his sword, seemingly pleased with the comment, "Yes it is. My grandfather gifted it to me for my last name day." He said. The steel itself gleamed dangerously. The guard consisted of two twinned points on opposite sides, the handle made of fine leather dyed black and red with a gold trim. The pommel was gold and shaped into that of a snarling lion. In fact, taking a closer look, the sword seemed to resemble the legendary Brightroar of the Lannister House, thought lost in Old Valyria. "It's called Lionsmaw. I think you'll be its first meal."

"We'll see about that." Jon replied grinning widely, eyes drifting back to the one-handed longsword. The similarities between it and that of the legendary blade were uncanny. Jon would admit openly that he wasn't the most avid scholar, however, when it came to tales, descriptions and myths of great warriors, battles and weapons, he was very interested.

"Prince Joffrey, are you ready to begin?" Ser Rodrick asked respectfully.

The legendary Brightroar, wielded by Tommen the second, the King of the Rock himself was thought lost when the Lannister ancestor attempted to plunder the ruins of Old Valyria and never returned. If this was the sword itself, then the Lannisters had somehow retrieved it.

"Of course, let's get this farce over with." Joff replied.

But if the Lannisters had retrieved the blade the blade then why had they gifted it to this upstart Prince? Why had Tywin Lannister not kept it hold up in Casterly Rock or given it to Jaime Lannister, one of the best swordsmen in Westeros?

"Then, begin." Ser Rodrick announced loudly and the young Prince charged forward, his sword held high above his head.

Looking closely at the steel, Jon grew convinced that it wasn't the ancient blade. If he recalled correctly, Valyrian steel was supposed to have a rippling pattern throughout the metal, like water flowing along a shallow pebbled stream. A product of the alloy being folded a thousand times. This metal however was smooth.

The prince swung down and Jon sidestepped almost lazily and watched as the boy stumbled slightly, his momentum catching him off balance.

Jon internally sighed to himself. There was only one way to find out if it truly was the legendary blade.

Joff regained his balance and lashed out with a sweeping attack towards Jon's torso. The bastard was surprised by the power behind the attack. He supposed it came from the weight of the sword more than Joff's own power. Not fazed however, Jon took a quick step backwards allowing the tip of the sword to pass a good inch or so from his stomach.

"C'mon boy! Stop flailing around and strike like a man!" shouted the King from the catwalk.

Joff's face soured, his form hunched over with the sword loose in his hands resting against the dirt. It looked heavy in his arms, like he had never wielded it before. He grit his teeth and struck again. It was an upwards, diagonal strike straight from the blades position on the floor attempting to slash up Jon's torso.

Watching as the metal approached him, Jon leant back and allowed it to pass over his face.

The prince's body swayed slightly as the sword carried through over his left shoulder and from the terrace Jon caught the King shaking his head slightly and cursing under his breath.

The look on Joff's face soured more still and Jon could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy. Yes, he was a spoilt, cruel and perverse soon to be man grown. Yet it was clear he still yearned after his Father's praise and acceptance, which the King almost dutifully seemed to ommit.

"Stay still bastard!" Joff ground out, his golden locks now matted slightly with sweat.

"Why would I do that?" Jon replied in genuine curiosity.

"Because I'm your Prince and I demand it!" the boy fired back, and with another roar he raised his sword once again over his head, striking down towards Jon's neck.

This was getting boring now. He had made it clear that Joff was completely inept with a sword in hand, the whole courtyard could probably see that now. The boy's lightly tanned cheeks were flushed red and his lips were tightly sewn together.

Jon leant his body to the side, only taking a half-step backwards while pivoting on the foot that remained, allowing the blade to pass by him safely. Catching another closer look at the steel, he grew more certain that it was not Brightroar.

"Your attacks are hasty and rushed. You allow anger to rule your movements and it shows. If you were to enter battle like this, you'd be dead before you manage to lift you sword."

"Shut up!" Joff near screamed, and Jon caught the Queen talking in angry hushed whispers to the King out of the corner of his eye, "What do you, a wildling bastard of the North, know?" he breathed heavily and allowed the sword to rest in the dirt, his knuckles now white from clenching the blade, "Born of a craven Lord and a whore no less!"

"My Lord Father is no craven, and I will ask you to watch your tongue," Jon replied, determined to not raise his voice. The Prince had touched a nerve there and he was slightly ashamed to admit it. He had never known his Mother, so she may very well have been a whore for all he knew, but his Father was no craven. Lord Eddard Stark was the epitome of a man with honour, a warrior with pride and a father with strict compassion. He was no craven.

"That's all you Northern savages are, wild cravens freezing in their dirty homes moaning about the winter coming." Joff smiled cruelly and Jon felt whatever previous sympathy he had felt for the boy wither and die.

"Very well." Jon rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders, "I shall show you just how craven we North folk are." He almost drawled.

Even before Joffery could consider the words or blink, Jon was on him. He drew his wooden weapon back to the side in two hands and brought it upon the boy in a blur of black and muddy brown.

The Prince managed to raise his mummers Brightroar tight to his chest and the wood connected with the metal with a loud clang. Jon made sure to make contact with the flat of the blade, less his practice sword be cut in half.

The weight of the attack was enough to send Joff sprawling backwards. After a few stumbled steps, attempting to regain his balance the Prince fell backwards into the mud.

"Stand up." Jon commanded, his voice as cold as the Northern winter.

"Do not tell me what to do, bastard!" The boy shouted back, but slowly stood nonetheless, sticking his sword in the mud to prop him up.

As soon as Joff was on two feet and his sword once again poised in front of him, Jon attacked again. Blurring forwards, Jon slammed his practice sword into the right thigh causing the prince's to shout out in pain. He then brought his sword up hard against the boy's hands and Joff cried out, dropping his blade in the process.

"Enough!" cried the Queen from the side-lines, her voice fierce and unwavering.

Jon wanted to continue, to beat the Prince into the floor, however he couldn't deny a direct a direct order from the Queen. Nodding slowly he placed his practice sword over his shoulder and took a step back, turning his back to the Prince.

"Robert, are you going to allow this?" Cersei continued, shrill with anger, "That bastard could have maimed Joff for all we know!"

Meanwhile, Joff was still whimpering behind Jon and Ser Rodrick nodded at him appreciatively, taking the wooden sword off him in the process.

"They were sparring woman, and Joff was using live steel yet!" The King dismissed with a blubbery shake of his head, "If I were to act against the boy it would not only disgrace Joff more than he's already disgraced himself already but also the crown." Robert spared one last look towards the Prince before turning away, "Come Ned, let us get a drink, I need to wash this bad taste out of my mouth." He said before stomping away.

Robb smirked reservedly at Jon and handed him a skin of water, "That was…" he began, seemingly unable to find the right words.

Jon merely grunted in response, taking a long drink from the skin.

From the terrace, the Queen was conversing tersely with Lady Stark, her eyes constantly flickering to her son. The boy in question was knelt in the in the mud clutching his hand with the Hound holding his sword by his side, his scarred face as stoic as ever.

Jon once more felt sympathy for the boy.

"How is your hand?" Jon asked, turning slightly.

Joff moved his lips slightly as if contemplating a reply, "I'll have you thrown in the black cells." He ground out eventually, beads of spit flying into the dirt.

"No you won't." He eyed the blond carefully, not rising to his taunts, "You're not much of a fighter."

"You should watch your mouth, bastard, this is the Prince you're talking to." The Hound spoke up, his hand ont he pommel of his sword.

"And you should watch your mouth dog, especially when you're not spoken to." Jon stared into the man's haunted eyes and Clegane stared back, meeting his gaze.

"What's your point?" Joffrey snapped irritably, rising from his crouched position.

Jon drew his stare away from the Hound, looking straight into the boy's emerald eyes, "Do you want to be?" He asked calmly.

"What?" Joffrey gawked, his face contorting with a confused anger.

"Do you want to be a fighter, to be strong, like your Father was?"

"'Is'. Like my Father 'is'." Joff corrected with pain visible in his gaze.

"'Was'" Jon repeated sternly, "Answer the question."

The Prince mumbled something inaudible and Jon frowned deeply, "I didn't hear you."

"Yes!" Joff shouted before catching himself, "I said yes. I want to be strong."

"Then train." Jon stated simply and confusion once again etched its way across the boy's face.

"I have trained, my Father hired a swords master… I-"the Prince grovelled before Jon interrupted.

"Not just your swordsmanship," The lilac-eyed boy sighed, "Your anger. Your anger clouds whatever talent or skill you may have. Learn composure. Your Father treats you like shit, like a bastard, like me." Jon stared deep into the Joff's eyes, "Rein your anger, hone your swordsmanship. Prove you are no bastard, Joffrey Baratheon."

"I-I can't."

"You can." Jon stated with a finality that seemed to resonate in Joff.

The bastard in the North turned his back to the Prince and walked towards Robb, who awaited him next to a torn Ser Rodrick, both with bearing faces of uneasy apprehension.

"I will get stronger." Joff suddenly called out, his voice harder with more certainty, and Jon turned to meet his eyes once more, "And when I do, i'll beat you back into the dirt you crawled out of."

A slow grin etched its way across Jon's face and his glistened like a flame reflected in an amethyst, "You can try." He said before turning his back once more, leaving the broken Prince and his loyal dog to ponder, in the softly falling snow.

* * *

Hey thanks for reading!

Make sure to fav, follow or review if that's your thing. If you got any questions about the story, pop em in a review and i'll answer in the next chapter.

Ciao.


	3. A Lionness and a Wolf Mutt

Ellooooo, welcome to chapter 3.

Thanks for all who faved, followed and reviewed! Some have been curious about Jon's talk with Joff and his response, and yes i think that it probs is unlikely in canon but you know, its a fic. As for Jon being 'too OOC' and not being respectful to the King, i have made some subtle changes to the dialouge however i dont quite get the 'too OOC' part. This is a fanfiction, Jon has a different blend of Rheagar and Lyanna than he does in cannon which i have thought up, how can it be 'too OOC'? (Not rhetorical, genuinely want responses so i can improve).

I also agree with the statement about Catelyn not being that bad have changed the text slightly :)

Guest reviewers comment about Jeyne and Jon's caution as to siring a bastard: 'there are some characteristics that cannot be changed and some are ingrained through his treatment by others' - i agree, however a different outward attitude changes the ways in which one responds to such treatment, this is a pretty basic principle in developmental psychology tbh, different people exposed to the same treatment react in different ways. This Jon is effectively a 'diffrent person' from the one in canon, so why should his reaction to his status be the same, just for the sake of following cannon? For isntance Jon obviously resented the fact that he would never make anything in life because of his status (in the books). However, in this fic, Jon has begun to see his status as a bastard as not completely negative hence the treatment he receives (which btw, isnt that bad as noted by the reviewer this guest reviewer referenced) affects him differently, specifically he disregards it and seeks other pleasures. He does not see siring a bastard as a _that_ a negative thing as he doesnt see his bastardhood as being that bad. As for Jeyne, a mere fictional product resulting from a changed Jon interacting with Winterfell characters.

Pack of One's comment about Jon not wanting power being BS: i agree, in cannon it is. But this is a different Jon, so why should it be BS? You could react similarily to anything in fanfiction and say 'this character wouldnt say that because in the book he was like this', but surely in a fanfiction the universe is changes (albeit slightly in this case) and hence his opinions, feelings, etc. have changed?

Hope i responded ok to your comments and if i missed anything call me out on it.

Anyways, Enjoy!

* * *

Ned Stark sighed tiredly as he looked over the accounts for the last week. The King's stay had been expensive to say the least. Grain stores had been depleting twice as fast with reserves of ales, meads and salted meats going just as quickly. Robert had some expensive tastes, and Ned had been cautious to remind him that Winterfell was not Kings Landing, nor did it have the capital's funding.

The Lord of Winterfell dropped the ink blotted parchments on the large oak desk in his scholar and leant back into his chair, his thoughts drifting to one of a million worries. For one, tension between the King's men, specifically the Lannister members, and the Winterfell natives had been palpable. Words had been parlayed, fights had been fought and bones broken. Each side had both initiated fights and suffered injuries as consequences so neither could be held accountable. The King was not fazed by the violence; in fact he found it amusing while the Queen complained directly, claiming for the Northern parties to be reprimanded for their 'barbaric' behaviour. Robert, well Robert would sit at the head of the great hall drowning himself in wine, either hammering his fat fist on the table cheering as people fought or groping serving girls shamelessly. Needless to say his old friend was not the same as the man he once knew.

Then there was the King offering him to be his Hand. Ned Stark did not have a taste for politics, and being the King's hand definitely called for a matured and acquired taste in the game. No, he would not make a good Hand to the King. Besides, winter was coming and he was needed here, in the North, with his people. Not to mention the last time Starks had gone south they had been murdered brutally by the mad King Aerys the second.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, the Lord of Winterfell's thoughts drifted to more recent events, namely his son Jon's bout with the crown Prince Joffrey. The Queen had been livid to say the least. She'd called for the boy to be punished, specifically for him to be sent to the wall which both the King and himself declined, Ned albeit a lot more politely. The Prince and suffered a bruised thigh, giving him a slight limp, and a badly bruised hand and wrist which he wore in a sling. Ned was unsure what was said between the two boys after their fight, however since then he had noticed a marked change in Joff. Namely, he did not seem to sneer and smirk at anyone whom he deemed lower than himself. Where Joffrey would normally sit and call people names he now sat quietly, as if pondering a great questions internally and would speak to his siblings and Ned's own children with little contempt. Ned had also caught him training with the Hound who seemed to take joy from mercilessly beating the boy, seemingly at his own request. Although, it was clear the Prince was still challenged, so to speak. Ned to could see it in his eyes, a sinister flame that promised harm to any who crossed him, only now it seemed more guarded, hidden behind a shroud of stoic nonchalance.

Eddard shook his head to himself dismissively. It would do no good thinking of such things; after all, he couldn't very well approach Robert despite being an old friend and tell him that his son was a soon-to-be mad man.

The Lord of Winterfell smiled softly as his reigned his thoughts back to Jon. The boy had impressed him greatly with his skill, not just in the bout with Joffrey, but also his improvement over the last few years past. Ser Rodrick claimed he would one day make an exceptional swordsman, rivalling the likes of Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, which coming from the Winterfell master at arms was exceptional in itself.

Nearing six feet, the boy had grown into a man any Father would be proud of, however Ned could not help the seed of worry that had begun to bud in his gut. Every day he would lay his eyes on the boy and be reminded his Mother, his lineage as clear as night and day. They shared the same nose and lips as well as their feisty attitude. Jon shared many traits with his Father too however. They shared the same tall, lean frame, the tell-tale thin, angular face which had emerged after Jon had shed his baby fat. And the eyes, the almost hauntingly dark lilac eyes that seemed to shimmer with a flame that could not be quenched. Ned would swear he could see the ghost of his face replacing Jon's at times and then the budding seed of fear and guilt and apprehension would once again surface.

A sharp rattle at the door broke Lord Stark out of his musings and he turned to see Catelyn's face edging around the door to his office.

"Dear Husband, I hope I am not interrupting anything." She said quietly with a small smile.

"Of course not." Ned replied with a tired smile of his own and with that Catelyn slipped into the solar closing the door softly behind her.

Eddard watched as the former Lady Tully moved to an armchair in the corner of the room and sank slowly into it.

The husband and wife sat in silence for a long moment, listening as the wind gently whispered at the window.

"I'm not going to accept the Kings offer, to be his Hand." Ned broke the silence and Catelyn turned her head to the side.

"What if he insists? He is the King, Ned, he could order you down south." She replied after a short pause.

"He would not do that, Robert is an old friend." Lord Stark was quick to reply.

"He would Ned." She sighed wistfully and gave him a sympathetic look, "He is not the man you once knew, you know this."

Ned did know this. Robert Baratheon was once a gallant warrior, the subject of songs of glory across Westeros, sought after by countless Ladies, who he lay with on more than one occasion. Now however, now he was a fat King drinking his life away. Ned had heard talk from Kings Landing too. Tales of small folk starving to death, tales of theft, rapes, and murders by both criminals and guards alike while the King sat cosy in the Red Keep.

"I'm needed here." He spoke after another short pause, his face pained.

"I know." She replied and stood up, brushing out the creases in her dress as she did so, "You look tired, Ned." Catelyn now stood in front of her Lord Husband and gently stroked the side of his face with her fingertips.

"I am tired." He replied succinctly, leaning into her touch. "I do not wish to go South, but I cannot deny Robert if he commands me, my honour is-."

"-Is your word. I know." She smiled with a soft exasperation which fell slowly, "Robb will have to take up your duties."

"He will make a fine Lord one day." Ned replied with a smile of his own, "Bran and Rickon too will be fine Lords of their own lands."

"And Sansa and Arya will be handsome ladies and marry Lords, bearing them many children." Catelyn's said proudly as her hand left Ned's face and fell into her other.

"You will have to force Arya to marry." The Lord laughed a deep, short laugh before the mirth slipped from his face as most as though a mask was removed, "And Jon…" He trailed off in though.

"He can take the Black." Catelyn cut in distinctly, her tone suddenly clipped.

"Jon does not wish to be constrained to a life at the wall." Ned replied as his eyes found other interest's in the room. Catelyn had been as good to Jon as a wife could be to her husband's bastard son. The topic however was still sore, even after all these years.

"The Black is a noble cause," His wife continued, "Even bastards can rise up the ranks."

"I know." Ned sighed another tired sigh, "I can't force him to take the black, Catelyn."

"You can," Her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips thinned, "He's _your_ son."

He winced slightly and moved his gaze to meet Catelyn's own misty blue eyes, "You know I cannot do that."

"I know you _can_ do it." She retorted instantly, "but what I do not know is why you _won't_ do it."

Ned did not say anything and the Lady of Winterfell turned swiftly and sat back down in the armchair across the solar, her eyes moving to the dark world outside the window as silence loomed over the two like a thick woollen blanket. The hearth cackled thirstily and Ned watched as the flames spat out embers which danced in the air for fleeting moments before disappearing into nothing.

"He can't stay here." Catelyn said suddenly over the cackling fire.

"I know." If his wife was surprised by the abrupt answer it did not reach her face nor eyes and she remained solemn, a picture of stoic beauty.

"Then what? You won't send him to the wall and he can't go to court if you are to be the King's hand." Ned considered her words for a short moment. Of course Jon's future had occurred to him before, however he usually put it out of his mind favouring a more pressing matter. When Jon was younger, he wanted to take the Black like Benjen, now, now things were more complicated. He was nearly a man grown with dangerous blood flowing through his veins, blood that would not allow him to sit frozen guarding a desolate wall.

"I will speak to him." Ned spoke and Catelyn nodded her head reluctantly in acceptance.

"Will you ever tell me truth?" She asked quietly and he met her shimmering blue eyes with his own.

"Yes." He replied, his voice as sure as the winter coming and silence once again loomed over the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

* * *

The grounds surrounding the Winterfell castle were a combination of vast stretches of grassy planes with rolling hills and tall, dense forests. Wild deer, elk, wolves and more roamed freely, untouched by the ever insatiable grasp of man. People often labelled the North vast and baron however in order to truly encapsulate the expanse of the land one would have to see it for themselves. Maester's were saying that summer was nearly at an end and a short autumn was approaching. In the North the land was never as vibrant and colourful in the summer as it is in Southron lands; nevertheless, it has its own quality, a solemn vibrancy that only Northmen could detect and appreciate. Now, as Jon gazed over the stretches of land from the summit of a small hill topped with a grove of pines, birch and even weirwood trees, he could see the subtle touch of summer fading. Birds did not sing as frequently, the air was more frigid and a rolling mist was ever shrouding the country. It was said that when stood atop the Wall, a great construction of ice and magic, gazing out into the emptiness beyond, it was easy to feel as though one were the only person in the world. Jon often felt the same as he stood facing the uninhabited grounds of Winterfell, watching nothing and seeing nothing.

The boy absentmindedly reached down with his hand and petted Ghost who had been nudging at his leg with his snout. The direwolf had only been with him for a fortnight yet he was growing exponentially both in loyalty to Jon and in size. The snow white fur seemed out of place among the throws of green, brown and grey but Jon thought it would only be a short while till he would blend in almost too well. He inwardly chuckled at the thought of a traveller or passer-by being startled by a pair of blood red eyes staring back at them from what seemed to be a snowy nothingness.

Turning and walking into the shaw of trees with Ghost at his heel, Jon made his way to one of the few places he could honestly say he felt peaceful, away from indifferent eyes and swooning gazes. At the centre of the grove of pines, birch and weirwood was a small and sunken heart tree. With its ivory bark littered with moss and ivy, the weirwood bore a carved face, the likes of which Jon had only read of in tales of the infamous tourney at Harrenhal in 281 AC. The face's deep set eyes were narrow as though squinted with crow's feet set from the corners and only bore slight traces of red sap, as though they were shimmering with tears rather than openly weeping. The nose was bulbous and short, with laugh lines flanking either side. The most interesting part of the face however was by far the mouth. Rather than being contorted into a grimace of sorrow as commonplace in the face of a heart tree, it was instead stretched into a wide peeling smile, one of uproarious laughter. It was a strange sight to behold. Out here, surrounded by only a few trees for company, stood this old decrepit tree. No longer was it prayed before and Jon often wondered who last knelt under its shade before him. Yet still, lonely and forgotten it was ever laughing, mocking, taunting. Perhaps that was why Jon favoured the spot so. The tree, despite its circumstances merely laughed at the world which had strung it into the past, a relic of times been and gone.

Jon smiled to himself and gently brushed his hand against the callous surface as Ghost owlishly blinked up at him. In the distance a wolf howled ominously and the direwolf turned and dashed into the brush, leaving Jon alone with the laughing heart tree and his thoughts.

* * *

It was early evening and what semblance of sunlight that managed to peer through the thick cloud was fleeing into the west. Another reason why Cersei Lannister hated the North was because she would miss the sunset due to thick grey veil covering the sky. Here, one could not gaze upon the throws of burnt oranges and yellows which faded into waves of calming blues and then indigo. The moon that would hang either effervescent or melancholy, full or crescent and the stars that littered the night sky shimmering with lost promises and forgotten songs.

The Queen sighed, bored of sat staring out the window her thoughts disparate and worries more disparate still. Donning a thick cloak of silvery grey, she exited her solar.

"Your Grace." Ser Meryn Trant quickly greeted, dipping his head and falling into place by her side, slightly behind her.

"Do not follow me." Cersei replied swiftly.

"Your Grace, it is my duty; I must-" He stammered.

"I don't give a damn for your duty." She bit back, her voice beckoning her to be questioned, "I wish to be left alone, if you have any qualms with this you can take it up with the King."

"Yes, Your Grace." Ser Meryn reluctantly agreed, stepping back outside her door and the Queen strode on, the Kingsgaurd already forgotten.

Winding her way thoroughly the scarcely lit corridors of the winter castle, she made her way to a veranda that overlooked the courtyard. Met with the cold, frisk air, Cersei felt her cheeks redden and she unconsciously rubbed her hands together. Continuing on, she walked briskly down into the courtyard and through one of the gates into the Godswood. She could not compare the gardens of the Red Keep to the woods of the North however she begrudgingly admitted to herself that the holy grounds of the North's decrepit old gods had an eerie beauty to them. Catching a glimpse of stark white against the dirty ivory bark Cersei gasped as her emerald eyes met a pair of glowing red orbs. She took a half step backwards and the beast stalked forwards slowly, low on its haunches, its teeth bared menacingly.

"Ghost, down." A stern voice of a man soon to be called out and the wolf's snarl vanished as soon as it came. The newly named Ghost, then turned abruptly and padded softly to the side of the boy who called him. Cersei immediately recognised him as the Ned Stark's bastard, the boy who had hurt her Joff. His hair was as black as night and fell in gentle ringlets as far as his chin, and his face was long and drawn but still held some traces of puppy fat. His lilac eyes were boring into her own and she felt a fury bubble within her.

"I apologise, you Grace." The boy bowed his head but not as deep as Cersei would have liked, "He was startled by your presence is all."

The Queen considered a response for a moment, before she clasped her hands back together and composed herself, "I should have that beast put down." She said suddenly, her tone clipped and cold, "And you also for what you did to Joff." She added quickly.

Cersei felt a tug at her at the corner of her lips as a flash of fear glimpsed in the boy's eyes. He did not say anything but lowered his head submissively, "You are the Stark bastard, yes?"

"Yes, your Grace." The bastard replied, his voice low, never wavering.

"And this is your… direwolf." Cersei continued as her mouth turned into a scowl, a single eyebrow raised.

"His name is Ghost." He confirmed with a nod, his face solemn.

"I gathered that." She quipped dryly and moved around the boy slowly, a lioness preying on a mutt of a young wolf.

"What brings you to the Godswood?" the bastard asked, once again meeting her emerald gaze with his own lilac one, "Your Grace," He quickly added.

"The happenings of the Queen do not concern the likes of you," Cersei answered and the boy's face fell with a mixture of poorly veiled anger and exasperation.

"I grew tired of being sat in my solar." She eventually replied after a short sigh. Walking forwards, the Queen approached the nearest weirwood tree and stroked the callous bark with her fingertips.

"A lioness should not be confined, I suppose," the bastard jested and Cersei felt a grin stretch across her lips despite herself and quelled it as quickly as it came.

"Indeed," She noticed the matching smirk on the bastard's face and that his beast had disappeared, as silent as the night, "You're awfully bold for a bastard." Cersei commented nonchalantly, her gaze returned to the white bark, running her palm flat against the surface.

"Thank you, your Grace." She sucked her teeth and withheld rolling her eyes.

"That was not a compliment," The lioness brought her gaze back to his, "It will get you killed one day."

"With all due respect, your Grace, I'd rather die boldly than live a coward." His eyes were hard and Cersei felt a small ember of respect for the boy spark within her.

"Be that as it may, bold wolves who stray from their packs are often put down one way or another." Her hand left the bark and clasped her other once more.

A silence fell over the two and Cersei found herself taking in the Godswood. From the blood red leaves of the weirwood trees to the gentle mist that mystified the holy ground, it truly was a fantastical place. A breeze brushed through the woods and the leafs in the trees swayed slowly while those on the earthen floor rustled restlessly.

"I will not forget what you did to Joff." She commented absently after a short while and watched as the bastard nodded uncertainly, seemingly unsure of how to respond, "However, his… attitude seems to have improved somewhat."

"You're welcome, your Grace." The wolf mutt spoke wryly and her eyes flashed with fury. The insolent whelp did not know his place, despite her warnings. Noticing her displeasure however, his mirth dropped and he once more became solemn. Cersei was almost taken aback by the transition and briefly wondered who the boy's mother was. No one would have believed that the honourable Ned Stark would sire a bastard, yet alone take the babe into his household to be raised alongside his trueborn. Nonetheless, here he was, a bastard of the North with lilac eyes. Cersei presumed his Mother was Ashara Dayne, the late Lady of Starfall which would explain the colour of the eyes. Although she did not know the Sword of Morning's sister well enough as to ascertain the similarities in their personalities.

"Joff is training hard each and every day." She informed the boy and he nodded once more.

"That is good, your Grace." He replied stiffly.

"He will be King one day," Cersei commented, glancing at the boy out of the corner of her eye, "It would be wise not to raise the ire of the man who you will one day pledge your fealty too," She eyed him steadily, judging his reaction, "Or the current Queen, mind you."

"I agree, your Grace." The bastard said.

"If you agree, then why did you beat Joffrey and embarrass him so?" Cersei snapped, her lips curled into a restrained snarl and her eyes narrowed.

"What you had rather me do?" he asked, genuine curiosity flashing in his eyes. Cersei bristled at his response however was unable to respond as the bastard continued, "If I had let him win, he would grow to believe he is untouchable, invincible and would one day face a fight with that same misplaced confidence and be cut down." He paused slightly and eyed Cersei carefully, "If I were to win by going easy on him, the prince could have claimed I was weak, and that he did not wish to fight properly against a lowly bastard such as myself. He would go on in the same way, preying on the weak. Only by losing, by losing badly can he learn to grow strong. Learn that he is not invincible, that the King's blood flowing through his veins does not make him immune to harm."

The boy lowered his stare and Cersei considered his words for a moment. Oh how she longed to throw the him into the black cells. To have him stripped, whipped and maimed, to wipe that insufferable smirk of his face for good. However the words he spoke were true. Joff was her eldest and she loved him dearly. She would kill anyone who wished him harm, burn cities to the ground and destroy whole kingdoms. She had not contemplated the possibility that in order for her boy to grow strong, he must be subject to some harm. To be shown what it feels to hurt, to be defeated.

Cersei sighed restlessly. She was growing tired of talking with the whelp. He had stirred her emotions and rustled her neatly packed pride. Nonetheless, she had begrudgingly accepted that the mutt's actions had done Joff more good than harm.

"You, are an insolent, obnoxious mutt and one day you _will_ be put down." She started with a calm heat to her voice, "Today however, is not that day." Cersei finalised and turned swiftly to exit the Godswood with a pace to her step. She did bother to listen to the boy's response and internally she hoped he never crossed her or her family again.

* * *

Jon watched in a curious bewilderment as the Queen left the Godswood, her single braid swaying gently with each step, her long silvery dress flowing behind her.

His ears twitched and he heard what sounded like a soft voice that was carried into the wind and abruptly lost. Jon smiled to himself, for the words sounded an awful lot like, "Thank you."

* * *

Thanks for readin! Again, if you got any Qs or just wanna voice your opinion im all up for constructive criticism but please be specific and dont just say 'its shit' cause that doesnt really help anyone and dont forget to fave or follow if ya feel like it.

Ciao.


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